


the monsters turned out to be just trees

by bellamees



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bellamy Has Feelings, Clarke has feelings, Comfort/Angst, F/M, Nightmares, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-07-14 13:01:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7172780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellamees/pseuds/bellamees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke sees Wells sitting on the other side of the fireplace. Finn takes a seat nearby. There are others, all quiet, all looming - faces she prefers to let go (but can't, can't, can't). Fire flickers near her, casting shadows on their faces. They’re barely there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the monsters turned out to be just trees

**Author's Note:**

> this was written a thousand years ago, during the second season. i've just resettled it to arkadia - that's way it fails to mention some other dead folks.

Clarke sees Wells sitting on the other side of the fireplace. Finn takes a seat nearby. There are others, all quiet, all looming - faces she prefers to let go (but can't, can't, _can't_ ). Fire flickers near her, casting shadows on their faces. They’re barely there. Her breath gets caught on her throat, overwhelming and poisonous. Panic starts crawling under her clothes, seething, burning her skin. Arkadia sleeps around her — a few guards patrolling in the distance, paying no attention to Clarke and her ghosts. She holds a gun fiercely against her body.

“Hey—”

_It’s only Bellamy_ , she realizes after jumping on her seat, all those ghosts around her pushing the air out of her lungs. He touches her shoulder lightly, a reassuring gesture, and they’re gone — the faces, the ghosts. They’re gone. Clarke inhales sharply, like she’s been running a marathon. Bellamy sits next to her, pretending to ignore the gun, pretending to ignore her distressed expression.

“Can’t sleep?” He tries, clearing his throat, stealing a few glances at her. Shadows dance all over his face, dark and heavy. _He’s real_ , she remembers, relieved. Bellamy’s there.

“No,” she manages to reply, shaking her head. “I can’t sleep here.”

“I know the feeling,” he gives her a bitter, knowing smile. “Nothing like the dropship, right?”

She nods, returning the smile, hers sadder, more empty. _Before - when everyone was alive and together_ , she thinks. Clarke wonders if Bellamy is thinking the same — she can’t read him. He’s staring into the fire, flames reflecting on his eyes, flouncing in his pupils. Bellamy looks broken. She reaches out a hand and touches his shoulder the same he’s done a moment before, tugging on his clothes, her elbow leaning against his back, fingers not wanting to let go. He takes the gun from her, putting it down on their feet.

“I had a nightmare,” he tells her, then, same bitter smile on his lips. “You were there. And Octavia.” Bellamy’s tone is somber, and Clarke feels something tug at her heartstrings. She runs her hand on his back, absentmindedly. “I — I couldn’t save both of you. I had to make a choice. So I let you go.”

Clarke looks away, feeling a strange confusion cloud her thoughts. She’s been trying hard to find a place for Bellamy in her thoughts — what was he? A friend? A partner? Her guard? Her — what? She knows she can’t lose him. It’ll drive her mad, to see him sitting there with her ghosts, face pale, eyes devoid of light, accusing. And here he is, telling her she is in his mind, too, in a way. Clarke recoils her hand, resting next to his on the cold metal bench, their fingers grasping.

“It was just —” she starts, not really knowing what to say.

“It was horrible, Clarke,” Bellamy’s voice comes out so heavy it scares her. He’s staring at her, eyes overflowing with things he can’t really say, he won’t, _and there’s so much_. Clarke tries to read them all, as hard as she can, as fast as she can, but he blinks them away. “I can’t let Octavia go but — I can’t— you are —”

Bellamy doesn’t complete his stuttering sentence. Instead, Clarke finds his hand and holds it fiercely, trying her best to convey her own thoughts through the warmth of her palm. Their fingers are laced, and they’re quiet, both staring into fire, black holes instead of souls, consuming the light and heat around them, consuming the words they won’t say, not now, not like this. It’s too confusing, it’s too early. The trees seem to grow taller around them. The flames flicker and die.

“You’re shaking,” he sighs, the way he does when she’s doing something he doesn’t approve of (like sitting out in the cold at night) (like holding his hand when they both know in the ground there’s too much to lose and neither of them can stand that thought) (but he still won’t stop her from doing it, because that’s what Bellamy does) (he just holds her hand harder instead). “Let’s go inside.”

“No,” Clarke pulls him closer, just a bit, only a bit, until their arms are touching. “Let’s stay a bit longer.”

They stay, minutes, maybe an hour, until their awkward proximity turns into Clarke resting her head on his shoulder, Bellamy’s head resting on hers. The fire is nothing but smoke and vestige of heat, glowing orange under a pile of dirt. They’re both shaking, and Clarke can’t tell anymore if it’s only the cold. Everything’s rattling inside her body. Their breath is as visible as the remains of smoke.

“Bellamy?”

“Hm?”

“We’re going to be okay.” She doesn't know if it's a question or not. Bellamy doesn’t say anything at first. Clarke feels his body stir, restless, cold, worried, broken. She rubs her thumb over the skin of his hand, soothingly, suddenly worried at how many bruises he still has on his body. Finally, he nods, agreeing. “We’ll be okay.”


End file.
